


Tear Me Down (Then Build Me Up)

by commandmetobewell



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunken Confessions, F/F, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, aka the one in which Lexa is a sad bean and clarke steps up to see the big picture, but i swear the ending is happy, but not without a shit ton of angst first, just a lot of comforting and talking and some kissing too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5874886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commandmetobewell/pseuds/commandmetobewell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Then why did you do it?" You don't have to ask to know that she's wondering why you chose to save her.</p><p>"Because," you whisper weakly as you turn to face her with a sad, drunken smile. "I'd rather live in a world in which you hate me than one in which you do not exist at all."</p><p>or</p><p>Lexa finally falls apart and Clarke is there to piece her back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear Me Down (Then Build Me Up)

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: BLOOD/SELF-INFLICTED INJURY
> 
> I was a sad bean because of all the Alycia hate but also because Lexa is a smol raccoon that needs some loving and deserves to break apart. It's pretty angsty but it has a happy ending, or at least I hope. I will have more to my main Clexa Story, "if anger and revenge can turn this ocean into a barren desert, then true love can also bloom flowers here" updated soon! Lots of angst coming on that one, for sure.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it or not! It was more or less free range feelings-dump. Haha, also it's like 3am so excuse any mistakes I've made. Thanks for the awesome support on my other works if you've read them! You guys have a fabulous night and enjoy your Monday morning, lol.
> 
> **EXTREMELY IMPORTANT EDIT: I totally forgot to mention that the quote used in the summary and the text is by frigidyoloducks on tumblr! I didn't add the recognition when I posted this story but the, "I'd rather live in a world in which you hate me than one in which you do not exist at all", is not actually my writing. I was inspired by the post on tumblr. Again I totally apologize for the misconception and improper citation! It's an beautiful and eloquent quote, but not mine.**

"More wine, Heda?"

Honestly, you should have stopped after the fourth glass, but it's rare that you get a chance to indulge like this.

" _Mochof_ ," you dazedly thank the attendant as she leaves a new bottle in your quarters. "That will be all, Maïka."

You can make out Indra's questioning eyes from where she takes guard from the door, but your general knows better than to question you. You get one day out of the year to do this, in which Indra and Titus allow you some respite. You wave to the attendant in a nonverbal way to tell her to shut the door on her way out. You barely hazard a glance at a mournful-looking Indra as the chamber doors shut and you're left to your own devices yet again. The familiar loneliness of silence encompasses the room and you find herself smiling sadly, despite the heavy ache in your slowly thrumming heart.

You grab the bottle by the tray and ditch your glass. It's not needed anymore. You tug off the cork with her teeth and let out a soft, raspy chuckle at how you feel nothing. Walking with a slight stumble to your step, you pass the tapestry covering either side of your wall. They're portraits, of the people you've lost through your years as the leader of the Grounders. You nod to you mother and father, then to Anya and Gustus, and finally, Costia.

 _Costia_.

You stop before the painting just beside your bed. On the off days in which you'd find herself returning to Polis, you would lay in your bed and stare at the painting until your heart could no longer take it. When sleep would consume you, the nightmares of her pale, bloodied head would haunt you. Her screams, even though you'd not been there to witness them, had engrained themselves in your mind. Her last words to you are ones that you will carry with you to the grave. They are tattooed into the inner workings of your fragile, weathered heart, in which they remind you of the pain her loss brings.

You dream of her always. Maybe that is why you refuse to sleep.

Today, however, is not one of those days. You instead tip the bottle to your lips and drink until you can't breathe. The tears burn at your eyelids but you don't let them drip down your cheeks. _Love is weakness_ , you remind herself as you pull the half-empty bottle away. _Feeling_ is weakness. _Caring_ is weakness. _Everything_  but death and war and leadership without regret is  _weakness_. Your heart cannot make your decisions. Your past cannot hold you down from the present. The blur of the room nearly makes you collapse, and the tingling in your toes always reminds you of the cold kiss of death.

"Clarke hates me too," you muse as you stare up at Costia's painting again. "I betrayed her. I… I broke her. Turned her into _me_."

Silence answers back.

"Do… do you remember when I asked you if you could love the Commander as you'd loved me?" You ask to the empty air, your eyes misting as the curls of Costia's dark hair threaten to pull her towards the painting. You'd spent hours with her, teasing her as the village's finest painter drew her portrait.

 _This is pointless, Leksa,_ she'd muttered the words to you with a playful scoff when the painter had scolded her for fidgeting.

 _If I get to fall asleep beside you every night, nothing is pointless,_ you'd replied the words with a tenderness you'd lost with her head.

"You told me that loving the Commander is no easy feat," you echo back the words of your first fight, the one right before she'd been taken from you. "I… I was reckless, you said. I cared more about others than myself, and it was something that would get me killed. I guess you were right, _hodnes_."

No punishment can be bigger than taking a life out - the soul and the heart and the _essence_ of one's being - and then asking them to live.

"Happy birthday, my love." You raises your bottle but keep your head bowed as you whisper the words. "May your peace be everlasting as always." A chuckle parts your lips as you tip the bottle back and chug. Wine dribbles out over your jaw and splashes against your jacket, which only causes you to laugh harder. You're almost at a hysterical level now, with her harsh rasps border-lining on raw sobs. But you don't cry. Tears are for the weak.

"Weakness," you repeat in a low mutter, "love is weakness. Always weakness."

You rip off your jacket and fling it across the room in a bloodcurdling scream. You look to the empty bottle in your hand before you grip around the neck of it, squeezing tight enough for it to shatter. Glass embeds itself into your palm and you stop your manic yelling to glance down at the room. The chuckles return as you reach down and grab at one of the shards before pushing as hard as you can into the cut Roan had already made. You tear open the stitches, but instead of crying or howling in pain, you laugh again. You feel like you've been hit with illness. You are mad, like the widows that wail in the streets. _But you are a widow_ , you remind yourself with a sloppy, halfhearted grin, _you are alone_. The familiar burn of pain serves as a sick sense of healing as blood pools down your palm and drips to the floor. You remove your other hand before nodding your head upwards and laughing.

"Weakness," you babble drunkenly with a slur, "a Commander is _never_ weak. Isn't that right, Anya?"

You whip around and point your finger at the portrait of your mentor - of the mother you never were blessed to love or have - and you grin. You stumble over to her, leaving a bleeding mess in your wake as you thrust your palm upwards, showing off your wound almost proudly. Her dark eyes stare at you from the portrait, unwavering and still. You bite your lip as you shake your hand desperately, a cry tearing at the base of your throat.

"Say something," you whisper to her, your voice cracking, "please, just say something."

Seeing as though she's not giving any response, you turn to face Gustus again. He always reminded you of your father. You suppose there's no real surprise there, considering he was your father's best friend. You barely remember your father, but you will always remember Gustus. You trip over some of the broken bottle as you make your way to his portrait, right next to your father's own. You stare up at the two men and slump over with exhaustion.

"Be strong," you murmur as you look back to your palm. "Be strong, everlasting, numb… cold. Heartless. _Heda_ is heartless."

_You may be heartless Lexa, but you're smart._

"I am not smart!" You snarl as you whip around, half expecting Clarke to be standing there. You can still feel her knife at the base of your throat as you raise your good hand to finger the tiny raised scar from where she'd nicked you a few days ago. When you catch sight of just your doors, you waver on your knees. Your mouth dries as you part your lips to whisper, "I am not smart, Clarke. I… I am not strong or brave or smart. I am a coward."

_You have no honour. I had no choice._

You turn on your heels and head towards the balcony, stumbling up the steps until you reach the cool dusk air. You take in the city below, celebrating your victory over the Ice Nation's latest conquest. You've brought them all peace in the form of silencing Nia, but you're not anywhere close to it yourself. You nearly killed her son, but you weren't able to. As you'd looked up into the eyes of the woman who took your love, you saw nothing but Costia's dark eyes staring pleadingly into your own. You could only hear the bloodcurdling screaming as she'd been ripped, limb from limb.

But then you saw something different.

You saw Clarke sobbing in front of you. You saw her lips moving and heard her pleading, _he did it for me_. You saw the tears stained to her cheeks as her bloodied hand pulled away from Finn's chest. You saw how she'd frozen after the missile nearly killed her mother. You saw her eyes, broken and betrayed, as you'd left her on the Mountain to face the enemy alone. You'd looked up to the Ice Queen, a woman who'd stolen everything from you, but she'd just been smirking as if the life of her child never mattered. You looked at her, into the depths of her cold, hazel eyes, and you saw yourself. You saw the woman haunted by death and marred by countless kills. _You_ turned into the monster than ruined everything for your soul and crushed your heart like a leaf. You turned into the beast of the forest, more fearsome and ruthless and blood-lusted than _pauna_ herself.

And then what did you do?

You taught Clarke to become the same thing.

 _I am become death_ , she'd once told you, _the destroyer of the worlds._

You know the quote. _Bhagavad Gita_ , an old historical text from the Old World. You had a copy that you'd found once when exploring with Indra and Anya. You'd come across an old bunker with books and maps. The text had been old, written in a language that you didn't quite understand. But you found more books, containing letters and words that translated the text. You picked it up as your hobby. Costia was the one who was able to read it first, being the prodigy of your village and all. She was the one who taught you _Trigedasleng_ first, whereas your father taught you English.

You remember how she had read you the passage (chapter eleven, you still remember) of the entire battle. Prince Arjuna hesitated to attack his enemy with his army; Vishnu, in the incarnation of Krishna, encouraged him, and motivated him by explaining how the world worked, with reincarnations and cosmic forms. It was then when the Prince asked for the true form of his enemy, not his incarnation. He wanted to see the soul of his enemy, lain bare and stripped free of barriers. Yet, Vishnu was trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and to impress him takes on his multi-armed form and says those exact words. The battle that had ensued afterwords had been bloody and full of carnage.

You remember reading it to Anya.

 _I suppose we've all thought that,_ _one way or another,_ she'd responded wisely as she'd closed your book, _but remember, death is not the end._

Is it not?

Your mind is your battlefield, your heart your graveyard. Inside your head, there is infinite screaming. Inside your chest, there is a missile waiting to be set off. Your soul is the neutral ground between the two, the land that has seen enough blood to fill ten oceans. Your eyes are sore with the sight of death, but you know you will never escape it. The feeling is engrained into your being. You are Heda, not a girl. You are meant to lead, not to grieve. You are the Commander. You suck in a deep, steadying breath as you collapse to your knees. In one way, you are thankful you're so high up. No one can see you from this height, not unless they have some sort of those weird Sky People contraptions that allow you to see things in the distance.

Even then, would it matter?

"The Commander is not weak," you spit between gritted teeth as you smash your bloody palm into the ground, "the Commander… the… _I_ …"

You can't finish your statement before you're heaving, vomiting up whatever wine you'd consumed over the small gap in the wall. You instantly feel terrible for whomever stands guard at the base of the tower. The last thing anyone should want is a shower of stomach acid as a celebration for a long-fought war. You wipe your mouth and lean back against the wall, staring at your palm with blurred vision. The glass is thickly dug into your palms, and you're beginning to realize that maybe you've not been feeling your palm because of your drunken state, but because of nerve damage.

"Weak," you breathe as your voice catches, "I… I am not weak. I am _Heda_."

You go to tug at the shard again when there is an incessant knocking on your door. At first, you don't hear the sound over your own growling, but then the door swings open and you can hear Indra's rough voice break through the air. There's an odd number of footsteps, one that makes you turn your head. You peer through the curtains to see familiar black boots charging through your throne room. You chuckle again as you heave to your feet, quelling another burbling round of nausea that threatens to drown you. Instead, you stumble back into the room and set your jaw.

"Clarke of the Sky People honours us with her presence," you say without so much as a slur as you lift your hands. Indra's eyes widen as she catches the sight of the room and then your bloodied palm. Even Clarke looks baffled at your condition, but you shake your head and stand straighter, almost mockingly at your general and the leader of the _Skaïkru_. Indra's sword drops from her side as she gasps when your lip quivers slightly.

"Heda," she mutters as she steps forward, "excuse this _branwada_ -"

"No," you snarl in her direction, "you do not speak such things of Clarke. She has done us a great debt."

"Commander-"

" _Shof op,_ Indra!" You snap, clenching your bloodied fist with as much grip as you can muster. The blood flows deeply, deeper than when you'd caught Roan's blade in the same palm. You watch as your general grits her teeth in obvious conflict, seemingly unsure of whether it's suitable to leave you in this condition. You point her back to the doors and she gets the message. Reluctantly, she leaves, but not without first passing a glare to Clarke's back.

As soon as the door slams shut, Clarke is on you like a bloodhound.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?!" She demands as she reaches out and snags your hand. You don't react as she stares at the shard of the glass deeply embedded in your palm. You've managed to undo the stitches the healers had spent hours weaving, but you don't care. You don't need them.

You are not weak. You are the Commander.

"What is it you wish to discuss, Clarke?" You ask, but the sadness can't be withheld any longer. You can feel Costia's eyes bearing into your skull from behind you, but you revel in the shame it churns within your gut. It reminds you of why you are alive. Pain is your lifeblood. You are the Commander.

Commander, Heda, Leader of the Thirteen Clans - but not Lexa.

No, never Lexa.

"You're an idiot," Clarke snarls as she furiously, tears welling in her eyes as she tries to drag you over to the bed. You look up and see Costia and feel your heart tense up. You don't know how you've managed to tear your hand free from Clarke's and stumble back to the balcony. You sway on your feet slightly, but you manage to get to the platform before you slump back against the wall. Clarke follows you in, but you don't have the strength to turn her away. She slides down beside you as you both stare down at your rejoicing people. Who would've thought _Skaïkru_ to become the thirteenth clan?

"I know," you murmur softly after sometime. Clarke glances at you in confusion as your throat bobs. "I know I am an idiot."

"Then why did you do it?" You don't have to ask to know that she's wondering why you chose to save her.

"Because," you whisper weakly as you turn to face her with a sad, drunken smile. "I'd rather live in a world in which you hate me than one in which you do not exist at all." Clarke gasps at your words but you don't let yourself get affected by the hitch in her breath. Instead, you turn back to your hand, cold and numb. You reach with your good palm and tug the shard free almost seamlessly. Clarke growls at your impudence and nonchalance but you don't care.

You are the Commander.

Not Lexa.

Not a girl.

Not a broken, lost, tortured, haunted, _devastatingly_ lonely girl.

You are not a girl. Not anymore.

(Were you ever?)

You place the shard in Clarke's hand and reach for her wrist. Involuntarily, Clarke's hands grip the makeshift blade as you lift her wrist so she may mimic the same position she'd held only a few nights ago. Your eyes are welled with tears, but Clarke is already crying. You can feel her hand trembling as you place the shard of glass against your neck. Your thumb delicately strokes over the back of her wrist, almost in an attempt to calm her.

"You wanted to kill me before," you murmur quietly, "what stopped you, Clarke?"

Clarke doesn't speak, so you lean closer. Your eyes are dangerously close to letting those tears fall now. _You are the Commander, you are not weak._ Your mantra plays over and over again, _love is a weakness._ Weakness befalls cowards and fools. You are the Commander. The Heda. The Leader. You are not permitted to feel, not when your people starve or die inside mountains. Not while wars rage through villages and burn them to the ground. Your life does not belong to you, and it never had. You are your people, but as you look into Clarke's chilling gaze, you know you can't do this to her.

You cannot make her responsible for another genocide.

"Your people will be safe," you tell her as you lower her hand and let your palm slump against your stomach. You're losing too much blood and the alcohol has swiped the oxygen from your veins. You feel lightheaded and weightless, like an angel of death. No, you're not an angel though.

You are a demon.

"Not if you don't stay alive," Clarke growls back, furiously wiping at her cheeks. The glass clatters to the ground as she lets it roll out from her loose grip. You tilt your head back against the wall and swallow thickly as she mutters, "I told you. I need your spirit to stay where it is, Commander."

Commander.

Not Lexa.

"I wanted to be a healer once," you tell her quietly, glancing back down to your hands. "My father was a healer."

Clarke doesn't speak.

"He used to tell me the story of how he met my mother," you rasp as you chuckle drunkenly. "She was a warrior for the previous Heda. Always came to him with scratches and bruises. Fell in love at first sight, according to my father." Your tongue grows thick in your mouth as your throat closes up.

The Commander is not weak.

But you want to be Lexa, too.

(You can't because _Lexa_ is weak and you cannot afford weakness.)

"They were together for four summers before they joined in a union. A winter later, they had me. My father would say that I was tiny, barely the size of his fist." You chuckle again as you remember curling up against his chest, with your small head tucked under his beard. He'd wrapped you tightly in his arms as he'd described the meeting. You can faintly remember the sound of your mother's laughing as she made dinner from the kitchen.

 _Faintly_.

( _You're a liar, Lexa._ )

"And your mom?" Clarke asks after sometime of silence. Your jaw quivers.

"I don't remember… I…," the words choke up in your throat. Weak. So weak. "I don't remember my mother."

"Oh," Clarke catches herself with a soft gasp, turning her face away. "I'm sorry."

"She is dead," you say with a furrowed brow. "Why do you apologize?"

"Oh," Clarke says again, fumbling with her hands, "it's sort of a customary thing. Condolences."

"Condolences," you test the word on your lips, thinking it sounds sombre and lowly. Clarke nods.

"My mother was killed in battle before I saw five summers," you say as you look up to the stars, "my father died in the winter. The Ice Queen torched our village after it was heard that the new Heda would be found in the land of the trees. She wanted that power for herself or her son." Clarke visibly tenses beside you, obviously overwhelmed by how much death you've really seen. You glance back down to your bloodied palm and sigh.

"I do not remember what she looks like," you whisper faintly, your voice sounding like a blade being sharpened against stone. "I do not remember the sound of her voice, either. I barely remember my father." Clarke stiffens and something in her facial expression changes. Her eyes grow dark.

"You're doing it again," she snarls at you, her fingers clenching tightly into fists. You don't react to her outburst, and instead you simply roll your head to the side to stare at her in silence. She shakes her head and growls, glaring at you with misty eyes. "You're trying to make me pity you. I know how you work, you and your stupid lies, your stupid lessons. You just want to worm your way inside my mind again so you can betray me, isn't that right?"

"I have never lied to you, Clarke." Your voice is strained, aching from speaking too long about things no one but you knows. Clarke snorts.

"As if," she mutters disapprovingly, "you're ruthless. _Heartless_."

You loved once. You loved and you lost and you _died_.

"Nothing to say?" Clarke spits with hostility. "Or are you gonna make me try and kill you again?"

You stay quiet. You are heartless.

"It's not going to work," Clarke seethes as she rises to her feet. "Not your stories of your parents, of Costia-"

Before either of you can realize it, you've leapt up from the floor and pressed her against the wall. Your heart thunders inside your chest as you hold back tears. Your hands are shaking as they pin Clarke to the cobblestone walls of your tower. You can't look into the blues of her eyes, because you will see the product of all those lessons. Anya used to say that a student is only as good as her teacher, but you think that perhaps Clarke has bested you. But despite her pinned position, she continues to rage. Her hand reaches for your tunic's collar, clenching it tightly in her grasp.

"Don't," you plead desperately as the tears well in your eyes, "don't talk about her. Not tonight."

"You got her killed," Clarke spits relentlessly. "You're the reason why she's dead, Lexa. You know it."

"I know," you admit breathlessly. The tears are straining to get out.

Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak.

"You loved her and you lost her. Everything you _touch_ bleeds. Everything you _love_ dies. You are heartless, Lexa. You can't care for anyone because as soon as you do, you fuck them over. You just had to send Anya to attack, didn't you? You had to let Gustus check us. You knew all of these things but you let them die. You killed all of them. You killed _me_." Clarke is ruthless with her words. She shakes you, flipping your bodies so that your back presses against the cold stone. You tremble in her grasp, but do not falter just yet. You see the stars in her eyes, of what you _could've_ had if you'd just been weak for a moment. You want to cradle her close to your chest but you can't, not while she looks at you like you're the bane of her existence. 

Perhaps, in some sick and twisted way, you are exactly that.

"Please," you whisper as you feel your body crumbling. "Clarke, _beja_ -"

"How unbefitting of a Commander," Clarke leers as she shoves you harder into the stone. "What would your generals think, watching you beg like a peasant in front of the Commander of Death? What makes you think that saving my life would ensure peace between our people?" You slump against the wall, feeling the breath leave your lungs. Weak, you are so damned weak. Tears flood your eyes and you can't blink them down anymore.

"No one can love you," Clarke ends the blow with a stunning finish, "you are _nothing_ , Lexa."

When she lets go, you fall to the ground.

As she goes to turn and walk away in her fury, you find your mouth opening.

"They sent me her hands first," you whisper as you crumple back to your knees. "Her hands were delicate, soft from giving life instead of taking it. Her fingers were without the nails." Clarke pauses and waits, her back rigid as you draw your shaking hands to your face. "She used to hold me because I had nightmares about every life I took. She was older than me by three summers. They sent me her feet next. She always… she would… she would entangle our legs and connect us like the vines in the trees. She kept sending me pieces of her until I got her head. They cut out her tongue but they left her eyes. They were brown, a dark mahogany like the woods, like our home. But they held no warmth, no comfort. They held nothing but my betrayal."

Clarke's throat tightens and you can see how she's fighting the urge to flee. Something is keeping her frozen.

"I told her that she cannot love the Commander," you whisper as you gaze out at the balcony. "She told me she hated me before they took her. I had spent the entire morning in the war room thinking about how… how I could apologize to her. How I could make things right again. I pleaded with Anya to help me understand how to still be me while leading my people, how I could still _love_ without putting everyone at risk. I rehearsed my apologies seven times with her. She held me when I cried as Costia didn't return that night. Or the night after that. Or the fortnight after that. I was blinded by my emotions and I didn't notice. Anya tried to warn me, but I was stubborn. I told her I would wait for Costia, that I would wait for her to come home."

(In some sense, you're still - _always_ \- waiting for her to come home.)

Clarke cocks her head in the slightest submission as you continue, your breath rattling as the tears blur your vision.

"Her last words…," you choke out as your voice trembles, "she hated me, Clarke. I sent her to her death and she _hated_ me."

You close your eyes, trying to reimagine a time in which being a Commander meant less than caring about yourself, about acknowledging that your heart breaks and bleeds despite being so damned torn apart and hardened again. Your shields are withering away. Your eyes are cracking at their poor attempts to hold back the moisture that wants so desperately to fall. Your lungs wheeze and you crave nothing but death. You want to be consumed.

"I couldn't let it happen to you," you admit in the barest of whispers, "I couldn't… I… _not again_."

And then, you break.

"You hate me," you breathe out as the tears break past your eyelids, "but you are _alive_ , Clarke. That is enough for me."

Finally, Clarke speaks.

"I don't hate you," she whispers as she turns her head to stare at you with a glassy expression. "But you broke me, Lexa."

"I know," you say with a nod. You swallow thickly as you continue to unravel, each layer you thought you'd patched up hastily suddenly unfolding like cloth. "What I did turned you into something I never wanted you to become. All those lessons, Clarke, they were meant to do the opposite of what I did. Your mother was right. _I'm_ the bad guy, Clarke. You… you lead with your heart and you are strong. Your people revere you and forgive you." There's a hint of jealously in your voice, but can you help it? You're sitting on the ground, your soul bleeding out and your heart crushed while your people don't cast a second glance. The only time they follow you is into battle. They'd questioned you after you saved all of them from more genocide.

"Maybe _you_ should have a heart," Clarke snorts with a sad chuckle. You can hear the sniffle in her words. You want to laugh but you can't. You instead peer back out into the city lights, your heart slowly thumping inside your chest as to remind you of how nonexistent it truly is. You swallow harshly.

"Once I had a heart, that's true." Your fingers clench around nothing, your mind searching for Costia's haunting ghost. "But it was lost long ago. I… I do not deserve forgiveness for what I've done, but I saved my people. They may hate me, and so may you, but I am Commander first. Always."

"And what about Lexa?" Clarke asks as she turns to face you. She comes back, kneeling by your side. "What about _you_?"

"Lexa," you whisper your name like it's a foreign taste. You chuckle again, feeling some of the alcohol starting to affect your head again. "Tell me, Clarke of the Sky People, have you ever had a dream… a dream so real you could taste it? In which your body felt weightless and free? In which happiness was neither fleeting nor tainted with the cost of life? Have you ever dreamed to be anywhere but _here_?" You point to your temple with a trembling finger. Your lips curl up into a sad, quavering smile as more tears well to your eyes. Clarke looks confused by your bizarre questions, but she doesn't walk away this time. She sits back on her bum with a soft plop. You nod at her sadly, so pathetically you can practically feel Anya turning in her grave.

 _Weak_.

"I dream of the wheat fields from the village in which I was raised," you tell her quietly, staring back up at the stars. "I dream of the river where I met my love. I dream of sweet berry pies and fresh bread. I dream of innocence and soft cotton against my skin. I dream of braiding flower crowns and riding horses through the mountains. I dream of Costia, of my parents, of Anya and Gustus. I dream of you, Clarke. I dream a dream in which I am not bound by a title or the chains to my people. I dream of freedom. I dream of happiness and love. I dream of _peace_."

"Lexa-"

"That is where she is," you whisper to her mournfully, your voice cracking. " _Lexa_ exists only in my dreams, Clarke."

"You're broken," she breathes out as she sees the raw agony in your expression. You smile again, but it cracks. You nod slowly. 

"I was born broken," you murmur as you glance back to your hand, "no one can fix me. I carry my people because I have no choice. No one carries me."

"What about me?" Clarke asks quietly. She seems almost nervous. "Don't you think _I_ can carry you?"

"You do," you answer gently, your breath hitching, "but as a ghost. As a reminder of the tortures of war. I am your shadow. I am your death."

"Then isn't better off to be dead?" Clarke asks bitterly, biting back her tears. "We can't do this, Lexa. We're falling apart."

"I cannot die," you whisper to her, your voice cracking. "My duty is to my people." Then, a pause. "But… _you_ are my people now, Clarke."

"You aren't Atlas, Lexa. You can't hold the world upon your shoulders all the time. You are human just like the rest of us, and even though your people think of you as a God, you're _not_ ," Clarke growls out as tears start flooding down her cheeks. "You may lie about your feelings but you have them. Look at you, how fucking messed up you are. When was the last time you were happy, Lexa? When was the last time you felt like a girl and not like a leader?"

"When I kissed you," you reply with a soft sigh, remembering that faint brush of exchange, "I let myself be weak for you."

Clarke grows quiet, so you decide to humble her with one final admission.

"I _am_ weak for you." It's a soft whisper, carrying the weight of your entire existence. Those five words nearly break you. Clarke holds down a cry.

"Why?" Clarke says, her bottom lip trembling. You glance at it for a moment, wondering what would happen if you kissed her again. Would it be as soft and tender as the first time? Would Clarke drink from your lips and drown you of your pains so your fight may finally be over? Would she cradle your head like Costia once did? Would she let out a soft moment of weakness in the barest semblance of a moan? Would she beg you to stay? Would she kiss away those insecurities that you've kept locked away? Would her lips act as sanctuary when you are pulled from a nightmare? Would her mouth absorb the salt of your tears? Would she shelter your burdens inside her chest so you can have a chance to breathe? Would she untangle the locks around your bruised heart and heal it softly, slowly, until you are strong again? Would she be the one to protect _you_ for once?

Would she be able to love you, too?

You can't answer her in words because you're crying so hard. When you started sobbing, you have no idea. Your walls have all crumbled and your blood has joined the dust on the ground. Your chest rattles with each aching breath as you shake your head, curling into yourself. Clarke watches in silence, and you almost bask in how she stares down at you with her wet eyes. A blade of remorse and pain slices through your stomach and curls upwards. You wish you were something tangible, not just floating like an aimless spirit. You wish to be more than just a vessel, more than just a title. You wanted to be a healer, someone who gave and brought life instead of taking it. You've lost more men than you've ever met in your lifetime. You lost that little girl who had fire in her eyes and steel in her chest when her village was burned and she was called to lead.

You lost Lexa after you became Heda.

In the midst of your cry, Clarke's arms wind themselves around you. Her head collapses against your chest as you cry mercilessly. You can't hold it back down. It's twenty years worth of memories, of anguish and loss, of war and death, of all the blood that has pooled on your hands that you can never scrub off. It's Costia's head rolling between your feet. Anya's burnt body collapsed at your side. Gustus' motionless, cut-up frame as he watches you. It's your mother and father, the two people who held you in the apex of their palms but weren't strong enough to keep you tethered to the ground.

It's Clarke - beautiful, broken, haunted, but incredibly strong and powerful,  _Clarke_.

"I am lost," you confess into her ear as you continue you weep, "I am so tired, Clarke. My soul is not strong like yours."

"But your heart is," Clarke tells you as her hand trails up your front and to your chest. "I was wrong, Lexa. You're not heartless."

"I cannot love," you cry between broken breaths. Your ribs are really hurting now. "I cannot love you if I'm going to lose you, too."

"You won't lose me," Clarke whispers as she maneuvers her body so her legs are straddling your lap. "Look at me, Lexa." You can hardly nod your head up, you're so drowsy. So vulnerable and open. She could reach inside your chest and yank out the organ that keeps you alive and you wouldn't be able to defend yourself. She could take you to the edge of the balcony and drop you, but you would just fall to your fate hopelessly. You are weak for her.

But then, her lips touch yours and you feel your world stop.

Her kiss is so fragile and gentle, like she's scared of pushing you to the point of breaking. You want to part your mouth to tell her that you're already broken, but she is adamant and strong. Her hands frame your face as you cry into her lips, unable to withhold your pain. Every part of your body aches with a driving numbness, one you'd not felt until the day after Costia's head had been delivered to you, when the shock had worn off for desolation. But there is a difference between that time and this. You faintly feel Clarke's tears drip down to your cheeks, and you _know_ what that difference is.

You are not alone anymore.

"You're not going to lose me," Clarke whispers as she breaks the kiss. Your lips ghost upwards, trying to chase the elixir of her mouth, the revitalizing Fountain of Youth in her taste, but you are met with the cold air. Your eyes blink open to see Clarke staring down at you unabashedly, purely, truly.

"Just like I'm not going to lose you," Clarke murmurs as she leans her forehead downwards so it may graze your own. "We're not going anywhere, Lexa. The roads between us are damaged, the bridges half blown to bits, but we're still alive. We're breathing and we're _here_. I am not letting you out of my sight again, okay? No more duels, no more war, just you and me. I need your spirit, but I also need you. I need you, Lexa, I need _you_." 

"I can't," you mumble as your head falls back against the concrete, "I… I am so weak, Clarke. I am torn down."

"Then let me build you up," Clarke almost growls the words as she reaches for your face again. You can see the protectiveness in her eyes as your gaze grows distant and foggy. She thumbs over your cheekbones, smudging your already blotched warpaint. "Let me stitch you back together so you may once again feel like Lexa, like the girl in your dreams. Let me build you up, brick by brick, until you can stand tall and proud like fierce woman you are." You gulp at the words, of reminders of how moments ago she'd been willing to walk out. Clarke sees the conflict and takes a breath before taking the final plunge. Her hands grip your face and pull you in for a searing kiss, one wracked with a million different emotions that you can't quite decipher.

"Let me love you," she breathes between your lips, resuscitating a heart you once thought'd been gone, "let me _love_ you, Lexa."

"But you said…," you whisper shakily, swallowing harshly again, "you told me you weren't ready."

"I might not ever be ready," Clarke admits in a soft breath, her eyes closing once more. She lets one thumb trail over your bottom lip, tracing a dip where you'd been hit by Roan. She inches closer until her chest is pressed tightly to yours. And then, she moves her lips to your ear to murmur, "but I don't want to lose you by waiting. We're not fixed. We're not okay. Not yet. But we will be, in time. Together, Lexa, we can be okay again."

"I can't lose you," you croak hoarsely, "death would find me an dishonourable passage if you left, Clarke."

"Do you not think that I am the same?" Clarke mutters as she loops her arms over your neck and brings you in for a tight embrace. Your breath hitches when you think of the last time someone had held you like this. It'd been Anya, just after Costia's death, in which she'd allowed you a moment of weakness. Your hands fumble at first, but then they familiarize themselves with Clarke. They rest on the small of her back like they were meant to be there, like Clarke fell from the sky so that you may hold each other like this. Your breath hitches with the thought of a life spent without the girl with the sun in her hair and the stars in her eyes. You grip her as tight as your injured hand can allow, your lips barely parting a few more small cries.

"Together?" You ask timidly, like a child. You feel Clarke visibly relax against you as she sighs and nods.

"Together," she whispers back, clutching you tighter. "We're going to be okay again, Lexa. We have to be."

"Where do we start?" You ask quietly, lost in the sensation of her stroking your hair. Clarke's lips press a kiss to your jaw before she untangles one hand from your neck and trails it downwards. She finds the wrist of your injured hand before drawing it into her palm. You can't fight the blush that taints your cheeks when she stares at the wound disapprovingly. Her eyes are playful, but still laced with fear as she ghosts her fingers over the cut.

"Here," she murmurs before placing her hand atop your chest. She draws your other hand to mimic the same over her heart. "And in  _here_."

Words are not needed anymore. After some more time, passed by hushed whimpers and silent cries, her lips find yours again. Your kisses are sharp and bursting with emotions - feelings you'd repressed since you'd been called to lead. Her tongue flicks against your top lip and you part your jaw so she may seek out your darkest secrets, your most vulnerable, shadowed scars. Her hands weave their way through your hair and massage to the beats of your heart. Your hands slide up and down her back and you cry against her. She sobs against you, but for once you do not feel burdened. You feel free. You feel ready to begin again. You feel ready to rebuild with Clarke. Not as Heda. Not as the Commander.  

But as _Lexa_ , the girl who once loved and lost and died, but will now be found so she can live again.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS:
> 
> Mochof - thanks  
> Hodnes - love  
> Branwada - idiot/fool  
> Beja - please
> 
> Also, the quote, "I am become death, destroyer of worlds," was actually taken from Bhagavad Gita, a Sanskrit text that dates back to circa fifth century B.C.E.. Oppenheimer took his quote from the text and got famous for saying it, lol. I just thought that I'd point that out -- but also the actual scripture is pretty cool. It's like 700 verses though, so unless you've got some spare time… haha.
> 
> Thanks again for reading if you made it thus far!
> 
> Cheers :)


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